


Molly of the Dead

by Cutebutpsycho



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-10-06
Updated: 2010-10-06
Packaged: 2017-12-03 07:35:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,087
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/695823
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cutebutpsycho/pseuds/Cutebutpsycho





	Molly of the Dead

So. I have a confession. I write fanfic. I've been working on a novel for the past nine months now and I'm finding that some of the prompts I get from other people are a great mental diversion from slogging through the monster that I've been battling.

When someone mentioned [](http://sherlockfest.livejournal.com/profile)[**sherlockfest**](http://sherlockfest.livejournal.com/) , I nosed around there and found this prompt:

_BBC!verse Molly-centric fic!_

_She is working in the morgue near or on Halloween. Creepiness happens, whether it is all-out bodies coming back to life or just lights flickering/odd noises. Molly freaks and then becomes the BAMF we all know she could be. Lestrade, Sally, Anderson, Sherlock, and Watson all show up in time to help out._

_Maybe throw in some Molly/Lestrade or Molly/Sally?_

And the ideas started flowing. Which resulted in the little story below. Many thanks to [](http://flying-android.livejournal.com/profile)[**flying_android**](http://flying-android.livejournal.com/) for editing and Brit-picking, as well as [](http://always-anon.livejournal.com/profile)[**always_anon**](http://always-anon.livejournal.com/) for answering my questions with grace and humor. All other errors (including the destruction of Lovecraftian mythos) are mine.

Molly and the crew are not mine, obviously. 

 

 

 **I** f this was a typical horror story, it would have been a dark and stormy night. But it’s not. It’s an unremarkable night in London -- slightly overcast, with the faintest hint of stars, if you can see them beyond the lamplights.

On this unremarkable night, thirteen people gathered in a nondescript basement. Thirteen people, dressed not in sinister hoods and cloaks, but street clothing, gathered to draw runes and circles on the ground as one man read from a book from a long-dead author, written in a long-dead language. A rather evil looking book, bound in what appeared to be a skin of some type.

Other than the speaker, it is quiet, save for an occasional chant:

_That is not dead which can eternal lie.  
And with strange aeons even death may die. _

Once the runes were completed, the people took a step back to see their handiwork. In the dim light of the basement, the white chalk lines began to glow. Soon the chanting became frenzied and louder as the glow grew brighter and brighter.

“Ph'nglui mglw'nafh Cthulhu R'lyeh wgah'nagl fhtagn" the group chanted growing elated as the lines lit up the room.

Their chants were soon replaced with hysterical screams of terror as noxious seawater flooded the room and tentacles snaked forward, grabbing their legs.

~*~

Molly Hooper, age thirty-one, was in bed with the blankets wrapped around her and her cat Toby curled up next to her. Armed with box of jaffa cakes and a mug of herbal tea, she was prepared to watch a recorded episode of Doctor Who before retiring for the night.

That was her plan until her mobile buzzed. Seeing who it was, Molly could feel a tingle run through her spine as she answered the call.

“Molly here,” she said.

“Molly, it’s Sherlock,” the rich baritone of his voice made her involuntarily quiver. “I’m going to need access to the morgue tonight.”

“Whatever for?’

Sherlock emitted an annoyed huff. “There’s going to be some bodies coming in soon that I’d like to take a look at,” he explained in a clipped tone. “I need someone there.”

“What about Harris?” she asked, annoyance tingeing her tone. It was a good episode of Doctor Who -- the ones with the stone angels that would move if you blinked -- that she planned to watch. Not to mention, the tea was relaxing and Toby was a lovely warm presence next to her.

“Harris doesn’t like me and his IQ matches tapioca pudding,” Sherlock said, his voice taking on a purring persuasive tone. “Besides, he didn’t pickup the phone when I called the office.”

She bit her lip as her emotions swung from unrequited crush to sheer annoyance. In the battle between the two, unrequited crush won. “Very well,” Molly said politely. “I’ll be there as soon as possible.”

“Thank you,” Sherlock replied curtly, then hung up the phone.

Molly sighed. So much for a quiet evening at home, she thought. Glancing over at Toby, who was watching the situation with curiosity, she leaned over and scratched his head, relishing the purr he emitted.

“Well Toby darling,” she said, hopping out of bed. “Don’t wait up. Hopefully I won’t be gone for long.”

~*~

The morgue was quiet when Molly arrived. Which really wasn’t a surprise to her. Apart from the daily work interactions and the odd visit by Sherlock, it was a quiet workplace. The dead don’t complain much, after all.

The lights were already on when she arrived. Thirteen closed body bags were found in a walk-in cooler, zipped up and waiting for inspection. Molly removed her jacket and donned a lab coat over her jeans and T-shirt. The clothing was chosen carefully -- she didn’t want to appear overly formal, since she was roused out of bed, but she also didn‘t want the impression that she gave up on life.

The past few days had been difficult for Molly -- there were three drive-by-shootings that resulted in six deaths, two apparent suicides and the other morgues were so full that St. Bart’s was now the overflow point. She stared at the new body bags and contemplated how to fit them into the storage lockers.

For a moment she entertained the notion of stacking bodies like Tetris puzzle pieces, but realized her superiors would not have a sense of humour about that. Instead, she chose to examine the initial autopsy report.

Thirteen bodies brought in. Eight of the deceased were male and the remaining five were female. They were found in the basement of a used bookstore located in Whitechapel. They arrived at the morgue at 8:30 p.m. -- roughly an hour ago. No names were found on the bodies and the age was indeterminate. Judging by some of the pictures included by the report, the thirteen had died of a very recent drowning. But how did they end up in the basement of a bookstore?

“Right then,” she said to herself, closing the report folder. “Where is Sherlock?” She hadn’t encountered him in front of the office doors, so she assumed he was delayed.

Suddenly a thought crept into her mind. _Where was Harris?_

There was a bang on a cooler door -- one of the larger coolers used to temporarily store bodies. Molly jumped and shuddered. _Harris must’ve gotten locked in or something daft,_ she thought, willing away a flicker of panic that whispered through her.

The door banged again, a bit more insistently this time. Molly swallowed. Harris wasn’t known for playing tricks or doing stupid things like getting locked in a cooler. The man had been on the job for more than 15 years doing the -- pun intended -- graveyard shift. He always joked he preferred the dead over the living because they couldn’t talk back to him.

 _Clank_ went the door again. Molly screwed up her courage and started for the door. Even though it was completely irrational and the logical part of her brain started laughing at her, Molly grabbed a postmortem knife just in case.

“I’m sure it’s nothing,” she whispered to herself in the most calming manner. “It’s probably something daft that you’ll laugh about with Harris later at the Christmas party.”

After taking a few deep breaths, Molly opened the door. There was nothing there -- just thirteen body bags.

A slightly hysterical giggle bubbled to the surface. “Oh thank Go --” Molly’s voice rose into a hysterical shriek as she saw Harris on the floor, lifeless eyes staring at the fluorescent lights.

She crouched down, checking for a pulse. It looked like his had been clawed to death. His lab coat was shredded and deep gouging wounds went from his neck down to his chest.

“Oh Harris,” Molly sighed. It was obvious he was dead.

Then his head turned and focused on her.

Molly screamed, backpedaling out of the room as fast as she could as Harris’ body rose to follow her.

“Cthulhu R'lyeh,” Harris hissed, moving towards her with a speed she was not used to seeing in zombies. Not that she had seen zombies in real life before. But movie and book knowledge told her they shouldn’t be moving so quickly.

Molly shuddered, quickening her pace as she moved backwards out of the room. If she could just get to the door and close it in time --

She reached the door and began closing it, cursing the entire time the slowness of the door. She could hear the slow shuffle of that thing.

Then he hit the door. With more strength than she anticipated, he pushed at the door, nearly shoving her backwards. Molly dug her heels into the floor and continued pushing, her breath coming out in ragged pants.

Harris continued pushing. She battled him, feeling her arms and her legs shake. Another hysterical laugh bubbled forth from Molly as she continued pushing.

“Cthulhu R'lyeh, Cthulhu R'lyeh , Cthulhu R'lyeh , Cthulhu R'lyeh , Cthulhu R'lyeh ,” Harris continued to croak.

Molly’s eyes closed as she continued to battle to close the door. _Great,_ she thought to herself, as she threw her entire body against the door. _I’m going to die because a coworker chewed my face off._ The hysterical giggling began to flow. _At least it’s not my cat that chewed my face off after I choked to death on Chinese takeaway._

A shot rang out and the smell of gunpowder wafted in the air. Molly leaped back shrieking madly.

She whipped her head around. There was a dark skinned woman with curly hair standing behind her, pistol drawn. Molly blinked and then recognized her -- Sergeant Sally Donovan of the Yard. Molly encountered her on occasion as she picked up reports for Detective Inspector Lestrade, but it was brief meetings. The only impression she had was that Donovan was all business -- curt, but polite, when handling the documents.

“Thank God!” Molly whispered.

Then the door swung open.

Harris lurched out, his hands grabbing Molly’s throat faster than any undead should have been moving. Molly gasped as cold, clammy hands choked her. She found herself staring into Harris’ eyes, which had a lifeless glow to them.

“Cthulhu R'lyeh,” he hissed.

Another shot rang out. Part of Harris’ head flew away, but the demonic gleam remained and his grip tightened.

“Cthulhu R'lyeh.”

Molly’s hands slid between his arms and she slashed at his neck with the postmortem knife. Harris continued to choke her as she sliced through the neck tendons and his head began to lop to the side. Molly’s breath came out in short gasps and blackness clouded her vision’s edge.

“Molly,” Donovan said in a low tone. “Drop your hands.”

Taking a deep breath, Molly obeyed.

The final shot ripped through Harris’ head, dissolving it in a haze of blood and gore that splattered all over Molly. An odour of seawater wafted through the air, as Molly dropped to the ground, gasping for air. The blackness faded away from her vision.

Donovan strode over and gently placed a hand on Molly’s back. “Are you alright?” she asked.

Molly nodded, looking up Donovan.

Then they heard a _zzzzzzziiiiiipppp_ sound. Multiple zipping noises to be exact.

The two women stood up.

“Molly is it?” uncertainty quavered in Donovan’s voice.

Molly nodded.

“Is it normal for body bags to sit up like that?”

Molly stared into the cooler. Thirteen body bags were sitting up. Thirteen voices began croaking “Cthulhu R'lyeh” as the bags rustled.

“Close the door,” she gasped.

“What?”

“Close. The. Door,” Molly said, pushing at it frantically. “Help me please!”

Donovan slammed her body against the door as a ripping sound echoed through the cooler. Together the two women managed to close the door.

Pulling back, they stared in terror at the door as it gave off a sickening _thud_.

“They’ll break through,” Molly whispered.

Donovan nodded, gulping. Her skin had gone pale.

“Don’t get me wrong, I’m glad you’re here, but why?” Molly said. Her feet felt like lead and she could barely move.

“DI Lestrade asked me to come,” Donovan hoarsely said. “He also issued me a pistol -- said it was priority to lock down the morgue before the armed forces came to evacuate the hospital.”

Molly nodded. “Sherlock said he was coming down here.”

“Of course the Freak would,” Donovan whispered.

The door thudded again. Molly turned around and began searching the morgue for tools. “How many bullets do you have?” she asked.

“As of now? Thirty,” Donovan said. “I was assigned an extended clip.”

Molly nodded then stared at what was available to her. The postmortem knife was effective in slashing, but it was too close. Also it just injured Harris -- or whatever was possessing him. _Cut off the head and the body will die_ she thought, staring down at the lifeless body.

“Typical zombies,” she chuckled.

“What?” Donovan stared at her as if she was mad.

Molly took the knife and slashed off a bit of her lab coat around the hem. “They’re typical zombies,” she said. “They’ll require removal of the head. Or if the body is so chopped up that it can’t do anything,” she tied the rag around her waist and sheathed the knife. “You’ve got bullets, but that won’t stop them. It requires a good smashing.” She picked up a postmortem hammer and handed it to Donovan. “Take this. That should knock their blocks clean off.”

Donovan nodded, testing the weight. “Impressive,” she said.

Molly nodded and handed her another knife. “What they’re saying is from HP Lovecraft,” she added.

“Isn’t he just a writer?”

“Yeah, horror stories,” Molly said, pulling out another hammer and holding it. She stared at the triple chain hooks, then grabbed them. “One never knows what you need,” she muttered to herself.

“Yeah, but isn’t it just stories?”

Molly glanced up at Donovan. The woman had an expression that basically translated to _This can’t be real. A horror story brought to life?_

“I know,” Molly said softly. “It seems insane, but we have to do what we can.”

“How the hell do you know all this?”

“I read a lot and really enjoyed Shaun of the Dead,” Molly said with a slightly hysterical laugh. “My friends got me _World War Z_ and other books on the undead. They think it’s a joke because of where I work.”

The pounding at the door got more insistent. Amazingly enough, the rivets on the door began popping slightly.

“I just never pictured this from your blog,” Donovan said, shouldering the hammer.

“You read my blog?” Molly asked, grabbing her by the arm and hauling her to the office.

“It was connected to John’s blog.”

“Did you like it?” Molly quietly cursed herself for asking the question.

“It was alright,” Sally said in a vain attempt to avoid the truth. “Very pink and covered with kittens. You’re not quite what the blog advertises.”

Molly felt herself laugh a genuine laugh as the two women pushed a desk in front of the door and placed their backs up against the wall. It felt good. Some tension in her shoulders dissipated.

“Who did you think I was?” she asked after a moment of silence.

“I don’t know,” Donovan said, as a faint blush forming on her cheeks. “I figured you liked Sophie Kinsella novels, Eastenders, Coronation Street, that sort of thing --” she shrugged. “I mean your blog is so pink and girly with the flowers and kittens.”

Molly laughed again. “I like Lovecraft, Simon Pegg, Edgar Wright and Nick Frost. I enjoy some video games, but mostly Plants vs. Zombies. You don‘t become a coroner without some interest in the macabre.”

“So my assumptions were wrong.” Donovan snorted.

“Not completely -- I do like Eastenders, pink and cats. I‘ve tried keeping plants but an horrifically bad at it,” Molly smiled. “What about you?”

“Nigella Lawson and Jamie Oliver,” Donovan answered with a grin. Catching the amused look on Molly’s face she chuckled. “I deal with murder, crime and evil all day. Cooking relaxes me.”

Molly nodded. “Next thing you’ll tell me is that you like romantic comedies. I never pictured that.”

“Nope. Can’t tolerate them. But I’ll confess, _Love Actually_ is actually a staple at my mum’s for the holidays.”

“Me too,” Molly interrupted. “Did you ever notice that one guy --”

“Bears a resemblance to John?” The other woman nodded. “Yep. Rather unsettling.”

The pounding on the door got louder and louder as well as the groans from within. A wave of dread filled both women.

“They’ll be out soon,” Molly whispered.

“Why aren’t we running?” Donovan asked.

“They’ll spread,” Molly replied. “My guess and this is entirely based on fiction and not reality, so it is not a sound theory. If this is Lovecraftian based, I suspect they used the Necronomicon --”

“The what?”

“Shh, let me finish,” Molly took a deep breath. “Look, it sounds mad, but there’s supposedly a book called the Necronomicon that is the book of the dead. There’s supposed to be rituals in there to do things like this. I wouldn’t be surprised if they’re going to use the other bodies in the morgue for demonic possession. It will spread.”

“So you’re saying we need to stop them.”

“Yes,” Molly said.

“You’re utterly mad.”

“I know.”

“How many bodies are here?”

Molly grabbed the printouts and examined them. “Forty,” she said.

“Fuck.”

“I know,” Molly felt another hysterical laugh bubble forth. “All we have to do is hold off until Sherlock arrives.”

“The Freak?” Donovan asked.

“He said he’d come.”

Donovan snorted. “More likely he’s taken a helicopter out of London town by now,” she muttered. “He’s got the resources for that.”

Before Molly could object, the sound of metal scraping and the cooler door falling to the ground startled them. The two women looked out the window into the morgue. Thirteen bloated bodies shambled forth.

“Times like this I wish I had a grenade,” Donovan muttered as the two women prepared themselves.

Molly chuckled, battling the edge of panic that threatened to overtake her.

The thirteen spread out of the room,. As if they were one creature, the thirteen simultaneously looked in Donovan and Molly’s direction. Even though their eyes were clouded over and devoid of life, Molly felt _something_ staring back at them. Whatever it was, it knew there were living beings nearby.

The thirteen lurched forward towards the office and began clawing at the windows and the door. The only sound they could hear was the infernal chanting as the bodies piled up against the window, their fingers clawing at the glass and making an unearthly screeching sound.

Molly could feel the adrenaline rush through her system. She glanced over at Donovan, who was also breathing heavily, eyes wide open in terror.

“They’re going to break through aren’t they?” Donovan whispered.

Molly nodded. “Window will probably go first,” she said.

“Then we swing at their heads then,” Donovan said. “There’s the counters in the way, so that will make it difficult for them to enter.”

“And we have reach with the hammer and the knives,” Molly added.

Donovan smiled as she heard the sound of cracking glass. “Clever girl.”

“I try.” Molly couldn’t help but feel flattered. It was nice feeling respect from another person. If Sherlock was here, she suspected he’d be nattering on about how she was doing it all wrong and making her feel small.

Both women focused on the window that had a long crack running down it. Molly raised her hammer. Donovan hefted hers and they both moved to that area.

“You ready?” Molly asked.

Donovan nodded. “Hell of a way to spend a Tuesday night,” she said grimly.

“And I thought I’d see the recent Doctor Who,” Molly said, just as the glass shattered and three zombies lurched forward, scrabbling and groaning for the two.

Molly let out a war whoop and swung with the hammer. She connected solidly with one of the undead’s cranium with a sickening _thwack_. Bits of brain and gore splattered backwards as the zombie let out another groan. Another swing caused the head to cleave in two as the body crumpled to the ground, lifeless.

Donovan stabbed at a zombie with her knife, pulling the zombie forward and half-way into the room. She hefted the mallet up and brought it smashing down on the head of the zombie, reducing it to pulp on the counter.

There was the sound of another window breaking as the chanting got louder. Molly let out a shriek as she glanced to her left and saw three zombies clawing at the air and them.

“I’ve got the last one,” Donvoan said, “Go the those fuckers.”

Molly nodded and ran over, swinging the triple chain hooks. Snagging two undead in the chest, she pulled them forward, so they fell head-first onto the counter. Two quick hits with the hammer reduced them to a consistency of chunky salsa as her hands twirled the hammer to have the hook embed itself under the third zombie’s chin. As she pulled it down to the counter, Molly pulled her knife off and lopped the head off in a clean blow.

“Where the hell did you learn that?” Donovan yelled, as she drew her revolver and shot a zombie who was clawing for her. A red mist shot out the back of the undead’s head as the unholy light faded from her eyes and she dropped. Donovan then followed up with a smashing blow with the hammer.

“Would you believe a mix of cardio kickboxing, whack-a-mole and fencing classes?” Molly replied, as she swung the hammer around, smashing another undead in the head.

Donovan smiled grimly. “Remind me to ask about your instructor later,” she said, brandishing the knife. The other zombies, realizing that two windows were smashed open, headed towards the women. “How many are left?”

“Seven,” Molly called out.

For the next minutes the two women moved frantically, smashing, hacking and shooting as the zombies clawed at them. They tore Molly’s lab coat and clawed at Donovan’s clothing, but the counters allowed some advantage in that the undead couldn’t enter the room. It also allowed the women the ability to pull the zombies partially inwards before crushing their skulls with the hammer.

Soon a pile of re-deceased corpses totalling thirteen were piled in front of the two women, bent awkwardly in the broken window.

Molly dropped the hammer and leaned against the wall, breathing deeply. Donovan was busy pushing some of the bodies over the partition. There was the sound of the door opening behind her and Molly picked up the hammer and jumped backwards, nearly screaming in fright.

A man with short jet black hair and weasel features leaped backwards. “JESUS!” he shouted as Molly staggered backwards with the hammer in an effort to keep from braining him.

“Anderson!” Donovan spat out. “I didn’t expect you here.”

“DI Lestrade asked me to come,” he said. At that moment Molly noticed that he was brandishing a gun. “They’ve managed to evacuate the hospital, so orders are to get everyone else out now.”

“Where is he?” Donovan asked.

“With Sherlock and John,” Anderson snorted. “They were whisked away in a black car -- something about ending this entire mess.”

“Probably flew out of the area,” Donovan spat out. “The Freak looks like he’s got enough money for that.”

Molly decided to bite her tongue for the moment. In the pit of her stomach, she believed they’d come, despite the doubt from Anderson and Donovan.

Not that she had time for clever retort. A slamming noise echoed through the room and the three of them quickly glanced at the cooler doors. Donovan’s face became more ashen and she glanced in Molly’s direction. Anderson’s eyes widened in shock at the noise.

Molly’s veins went cold. “It’s can’t be,” she muttered softly. “We killed them all.”

“Whatever it is, they’re coming back,” Anderson whispered. “We’ve got to get out of here.”

Molly and Donovan locked eyes. “We have to go,” Donvan said. “We can’t battle twenty-seven monsters with two guns and some hammers.”

“Cover me,” Molly said as she scrambled out the windows and into the autopsy room. An odd stench -- more than the usual chemical smells -- permeated her nostrils, causing her to gag slightly.

The thudding from the lockers got louder and more ominous sounding. Molly scrambled to the supply locker and grabbed a couple bottles of chemicals.

“Molly,” Donovan hissed as the slamming sound got louder.

Turning around, Molly scrambled towards the window and handed the bottles to Donovan and Anderson. “Careful with those,” she said. “Do not open them. They’ll burn like hell.”

Anderson glanced at Donovan. _Does she know what she’s doing?_ , the look seemed to say.

“We’re still alive,” Donovan said, giving a hand to Molly and pulling her over the window as the doors on the coolers began to rattle.

“I never pictured this from little Molly,” there was a touch of sarcasm in Anderson’s voice. “I mean her blog --”

“Yes, I like pink and cats and flowers,” Molly snapped as she began rooting through Harris’ desk. She recalled him talking about how hard it was to give up smoking and his recent relapse. “I had this conversation already.”

There it was -- a little red lighter. Molly gave a whoop of joy as she brandished it. One door fell to the floor with a _thud_ and a group of zombies shuffled forward and toward the group.

Anderson and Donovan fell back from the window.

“Move to the door!” Molly exclaimed. “Donovan -- one of the bottles!”

Donovan threw a bottle to Molly, who caught it. Opening the top, she began dumping the cleaner on the bodies still laying in the window areas. “Get out of here,” she told them.

The monstrosities shuffled forward, attracted to the sound of Molly speaking. Donovan and Anderson ran out the door as Molly followed, leaving a small trail of the cleaning fluid to the doorway. Closing the bottle, she handed it to Donovan. “This is going to smell,” she warned, striking the lighter.

A small blue flame shot forth and Molly applied it to the line of cleaner that she had dumped. Immediately a line of fire headed towards the bodies and the zombies.

The eerie thing, Molly, Donovan and Anderson would say later, was the _silence_. From the doorway, they heard the _foom_ sound as the fire spread through the office. They saw the zombies light up, smelled the acrid scent of burning flesh. The bodies continued to move forward until limbs burned off and they toppled forward, full of fire and smoke. But there was no sound, other than the crackle of fire. It was without a doubt, the creepiest thing they ever saw.

Molly slammed the door and locked it. “That should buy us some time,” she said, as she began pouring more of the chemical down the hallway. Looking around, she saw the break room. “We can hole up in here for a bit if need be.”

“You’re not thinking we can defeat them all?” Anderson’s voice was slightly panicky.

Donovan chuckled. “Anderson, she and I re-killed thirteen of those things,” she said softly.

The gobsmacked look on Anderson’s face grew and a twisted grin spread across his mouth. “I feel like I’m in Bizzaro World,” he muttered.

“What? The zombies weren’t clue enough?” Molly snapped back.

Anderson chuckled as he readied his firearm. “Fair enough,” he said. “You trust her Sally?”

Donovan nodded. “She’s a clever girl.” She then handed him her knife. “In case you need it,” she said. “This is a messy job. You’ve got to cosh in their brains good.”

Molly couldn’t help but smile. She knew her theories were utterly mad, but they were working and having Donovan’s support just made her believe she was on the right track. Deciding not to linger on the good feeling, she took the other bottle of cleaner and headed back to the doorway. Pouring a great puddle on the floor, she then trailed it back to where they were hiding in the break room.

That was her original plan. But before she could come back, the door exploded and Molly dropped the bottle of cleaner in shock. Scrambling backwards, she let out a scream of terror as she saw what was towering over her.

The thing -- Molly couldn’t even say it resembled a humanoid -- looked like an amalgamation of body parts that were moulded together into a gigantic beast. Clouded eyes peered out at her and several mouths gaped. The thing scuttled along on many legs and arms joined together to form something that looked strangely like tentacles.

Cold fear froze her body as all the mouths opened to hiss, “Cthulhu R'lyeh.”

Molly began screaming in terror. She faintly heard Donovan and Anderson shout in surprise, then the sound of gunfire as they shot at the thing. Molly scrambled backwards, attempting to get a safe distance out of the way from the beast, only to have one tentacle whip around her leg and pull her up.

Mouths breathing fetid air attempted to nip at her and hands clawed at her lab coat. Remembering her lighter, Molly lit it and then dropped it on the beast, hoping that it would hit the cleaning solution.

The fates favoured her, keeping the lighter lit and having it hit the puddle. The creature let out a screech and dropped her, which gave Molly enough time to scramble backwards. She could feel the fire on her lab coat and she shucked it off, throwing it at the monster.

“SHOOT IT!” she screamed as she dropped to the ground and began army crawling towards Donovan and Anderson. A hail of bullets ripped above her as they shot the thing, which was roaring and twisting in rage. A tentacle reached out to grab her, but Molly kicked furiously at it as she reached the two of them.

Moving past them she looking in the break room for something -- anything else that they could use against that abomination. There was nothing but the usual break room items -- coffee, filters, a mega-sized container of non-dairy creamer.

She squinted. _Wait a second_ , her mind whispered. Molly’s mind flashed back to a chemistry class in which some of her classmates got into trouble for an experiment with the teacher’s coffee creamer and a fan. The school was nearly evacuated and the scent of crème brulee never did leave that room.

Rooting around a bit more, she found a small desk fan that someone thought to jam in one of the cabinets -- perhaps as a way to declutter their desk area. An idea burst forth like a firework and she grabbed the items.

“Molly!” Donovan screamed. “It’s still coming.”

Plugging in the fan, Molly turned it on high and peeked out of the break room. Donovan and Anderson were shooting furiously at the beast, which was lashing out. Bits of it were on fire -- an odd tentacle, a spare head, part of a leg -- but the creature didn’t seemed to be bothered at all. It was a long shot, but Molly couldn’t think of anything else.

“Fall back,” she yelled. Donovan and Anderson obeyed, heading down the hall as Molly interposed herself in front of them with the fan. Putting the fan on high mode, she began shaking the creamer out into the blowing air.

The reaction was more volatile than she expected. As soon as the white powder floated towards the beast, a whooshing noise occurred. The fireball was immense and Molly could hear Donovan exclaim, “Bloody hell!” while Anderson yelled, “Jesus, Mary and Joseph!”

The monster roared in pain, flaming tentacles flailing about. One of them nearly hit Molly as she jumped back, dropping the fan.

Pulling the knife from its makeshift sheath, Molly slashed at the beast. “I think it’s time to run,” she yelled as she, Donovan and Anderson made a mad scramble for the exit.

For a hodge-podge of body parts, the monster moved amazingly quick. Scuttling around on its many legs, the flaming, roaring beast followed them as they ran towards the emergency exit. Tentacles reached out to make a vain attempt at grabbing them, only to miss by mere millimeteres.

 _I’m going to die,_ Molly thought to herself. Her legs ached and her side felt like it was on fire. _I wonder what my obituary will read. Molly Hooper, age 31, consumed by a demonic abomination?_

Donovan opened the emergency exit door, causing alarm bells to ring. The three of them continued running up the steps, only to run face-first into Sherlock, John and Lestrade running downstairs.

“Sherlock!” Molly exclaimed. “Don’t go down there! It’s gotten worse.”

Before more could be said, a tentacle whipped up and grabbed Anderson around the ankle. Tugging at him, the man fell with a shout. Molly raised the knife and slashed at the tentacle, cutting it apart. Donovan grabbed Anderson around the torso and pulled him up the stairs.

Sherlock had his mobile out and was tapping furiously on the keys. Taking two steps down, he threw the phone down, where it landed next to the creature. John and Lestrade had revolvers out and were taking shots at the creature as Donovan, Anderson and Molly moved towards them.

“I think we should get going,” Sherlock said, pushing past everyone.

“What did you drop?” Molly asked.

“It’s something from Mycroft -- we only have a few seconds,” Sherlock shouted over his shoulder as he ducked another tentacle that whizzed over his head and crashed into the wall.

The six of them ran for the exit as the beast screeched and attempted to grab at them. One appendage was successful and grabbed Donovan around an ankle, causing her to stumble. Aiming directly at the arm, Donovan fired off three bullets, severing the limb from the beast. Molly, along with Lestrade, grabbed her and helped drag her out of the stairwell.

As the six exited the area, Sherlock and John leaned against the door, shutting it as a bright, white light filled the stairwell. They heard the creature screeching loudly, screaming in pain.

“Do not look in there,” Sherlock gasped.

Molly leaned against the door, breathing heavily. “What on earth was that?” she asked.

“Ward of unbinding,” he replied. “It unbinds _everything_.”

The light faded away and an eerie silence filled the room. Before the six could do anything else, a flood of people dressed in a more streamlined version of military uniforms flooded the hallways, draping them with shock blankets. A group of them headed downstairs towards the morgue, as the rest spread out to secure the hallways.

One person stopped in front of the group. Molly wasn‘t sure if it was a man or a woman, given that a dark helmet covered most of their face. “Begging your pardon,” the person said. “You’ll have to come with us. You’ll need to be in quarantine given your exposure to the incident.”

Molly suddenly felt the adrenaline rush wear off and exhaustion settle in. “And all I wanted was my Doctor Who episode,” she muttered to no one in particular.

~*~

Despite the use of the word “quarantine,” the weeks following the entire incident weren’t as terrible as Molly thought they would be. The six of them had been taken to some place called “The Village,” located along the seaside.

For a week or so, the six of them remained in isolation, with no way to contact each other or the outside world. During that time, Molly dealt with many interviews from people interested in discovering what happened that night and what her role was in the situation. She also was subjected to many physical exams and constant surveillance.

It was oddly restful though. Her room was quite comfortable and there was a state of the art television with a variety of film available with the click of her remote. Someone with an odd sense of humour had included _Nightwatching_ , which starred that actor who bore an unsettling resemblance to John Watson. Nevertheless, Molly watched it with a cheeky grin. She realized that it would be a long time before she could look at John without blushing.

By the end of the first week, Molly had her final interview with a sharply-dressed man, with neatly combed hair and a slightly beaky nose. He carried and umbrella and introduced himself as Mycroft Holmes.

Accompanying him was a smartly dressed woman who spent most of the time typing furiously on her Blackberry. Molly suspected that the woman’s shoes (Jimmy Choos, she’d wager) cost about as much as her flat’s rent. The dress was probably a month’s salary. She didn’t even want to speculate on the haircut. All she knew was that she felt very plain, wearing in a government-issued pajamas and slippers, next to that woman.

“Molly Hooper is it?” Mycroft asked her.

Molly nodded. He was like Sherlock in that she felt like she was under scrutiny, but somehow she wasn’t as intimidated by him. Which was odd, given that she imagined the entire Holmes family being so intimidating that for family entertainment they just stared at each other, willing the other to blink first.

“Do you mind telling me what happened?” he asked.

And so, for what felt like the billionth time, Molly told her story. About missing the Doctor Who episode, about Harris, Donovan coming to assist her and the eventual monstrosity. She talked about her pop culture knowledge of zombies, Lovecraft, her job’s equipment and how it all helped her stay alive.

“Impressive,” Mycroft said at the end of her tale. “I was wondering if you’d consider something.” He leaned back in his chair with a slight smile. “I work for something called The Laundry. We specialize in things of a supernatural nature.

“You seem to be adept with situations such as these, and we could always use a mind like yours,” he said, a persuasive tone colouring his words.

Molly blinked. After the past week, this was a bit much for her. First she was attacked by the undead, now she had a new job offer. “Would I have to quit my job?” she asked.

Mycroft shrugged. “It would be perhaps necessary,” he said. Checking his watch, he saw the time. “If you’ll excuse me, I must be going,” he said. “Just take your time and figure out your answer. I understand this has been a trying time for you.”

Molly looked up at him. “So what do people think happened?” she asked him.

Mycroft didn’t even blink. “Terrorist attack,” he said simply. “Biological and chemical warfare that was smuggled in using corpses.”

“What if someone says something otherwise?”

To his credit, Mycroft didn’t burst out into an evil laugh. He looked down at Molly with a benevolent smile and said, “My dear, who would believe that this was the result of some cultists trying to bring a Lovecraftian horror to life? It defies all logic and reason.”

~*~

“So did the Freak’s brother come and visit you?” Donovan plopped down next to her in the bar.

A week had passed since they were put in quarantine. By now, seeing that none of them were going to sprout wings or tentacles, an unknown authority decided that it was time to allow the six to interact.

The Village was actually quite a nice place, Molly thought to herself. It had a restaurant and a semi-decent bar. Her days were usually spent wandering the beach or sitting in the bar, reading and having a pint.

On occasion, Anderson and Lestrade would come and talk over a cup of tea. Anderson was growing a bit of scruff around his face and Molly thought it softened his weasel features, but for some reason, she never mentioned it to him. Lestrade looked haggard and haunted. Molly wondered what he had seen during the incident, but never asked him about it.

Sherlock and John spent most of their time alone. Molly noticed that Sherlock seemed to be chomping at the bit, bored and restless. Most of John’s time was spent trying to keep his friend’s mind preoccupied. Sherlock remained, well, _Sherlock_ , during that time and a bored Sherlock was even more unpleasant than the man she encountered in the lab. It was funny, Molly thought. The more time she spent with him, the more annoying she found him. Perhaps it was a good thing her crush never manifested into something more.

Even with that, there was an odd bond between the six now. Molly recalled her grandfather talking about his service in World War II and how even though he may not have liked some of the men in his company, he felt an affection for them that was hard to explain. They worried about each other, cared for each other and sometimes battled the urge to punch each other in the face. In the past, she didn’t understand what he meant. But now, she had an inkling.

But if there was someone who she felt a real kinship too, it was Donovan. Who was sitting next to her brandishing a couple pints for them to enjoy.

“He did,” Molly said. “Offered me a job.”

“With the Laundry?”

Molly sipped her pint and nodded. “You too?”

Donovan nodded. “You gonna take it?”

Molly shrugged. “I don’t know.”

“Me either.” Donovan took a big drink. “I figure I can take this time and think about it.”

A thoughtful silence passed between the two of them. Molly wondered how long it would be before St. Barts would be back to normal -- whatever that was.

“I’ll confess something,” Molly said. “I was wondering what you were going to do.”

Donovan laughed. “Me too,” she grinned.

The two women laughed. “No one will believe us will they?” Donovan‘s smile softened. “There won’t be movies made of us will there?”

Molly shook her head. “Damn shame though. I always fancied that I looked like Gemma Arterton,” she joked, then took a sip of beer.

Donovan’s laugh soon included a snort. “Do you think I could get Thandie Newton to play me? And what about the boys?”

Molly snorted. “Forget them,” she said softly. “We did all the heavy lifting.”

There was another round of uproarious laughter, causing the four men -- who were huddled around a table, watching some crap telly -- to stare at them.

“If it was a movie, what would it be called?” Donovan asked, as their giggles quieted down.

“I dunno,” Molly‘s grin became impish. “Molly of the Dead has a ring to it.”

FIN


End file.
